


A Wimsey Epiphany

by SEF



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Book: Busman's Honeymoon, F/M, Family History, Ghosts, Libraries, Podfic Welcome, The Blitz, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:29:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27690716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SEF/pseuds/SEF
Summary: The Wimseys spend the turn of the year 1941 at Duke’s Denver with Miss Climpson, their family, and the family ghosts.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 49
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	A Wimsey Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

  * For [couldaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/gifts).



> couldaughter suggested (among other things): angst with a happy ending, curtain fic, epistolary fic, outside perspective, time travel, space AU, early-marriage fluff, and elderly lesbian romance. 
> 
> Or just blame Chapter 11 of Busman’s Honeymoon.

* * *

“Death is an ascension to a better library.”

― John Donne

* * *

Boxing Day  
December 26, 1940  
Duke’s Denver, Norfolk  
8:15 am  
The breakfast room

Christmas was staging a weepy goodbye, dashing its tears against the tall windows of the breakfast room where two weary parents dined in quiet companionship. The newspaper pages spread across the tabletop―in flagrant disavowal of tradition―featured pictures of smouldering London débris.

Peter slid the newspaper away from Harriet’s plate. “You’ll ruin your digestion, dearest.” He took a bite of toast, chewed thoughtfully, and changed the subject. “Did I tell you our eldest saw Lord Roger yesterday at the afternoon competitions? At least, I presume it was Lord Roger. He wore a ruff and a doublet and, Bredon reports, exceptionally tight breeches.”

“Lord Roger? Wasn’t he the family ghost who knew Philip Sidney? Why would he take an interest in cricket and foot races?”

“Poetry is a manly art, Harri―”

Bunter stepped in with a silver salver bearing a Queen Anne coffeepot and a yellow envelope. “Telegram, my lord.” 

Harriet’s pulse jumped. Who was unaccounted for? Where were they? Could they….

Peter reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Bungo’s up early, no doubt.” The Foreign Office rarely went a week without consulting him. He slipped the envelope open with one long finger―and blanched.

“Peter! What is it?” 

He scanned the telegram, then huffed out an explosive breath. “Well, those three little words form quite a hair-raising opening statement. Fetch my Natrax for Nerves, Bunter.” 

Harriet knew that was a joke. Reassured, she reached for the telegram. 

“All shall be well,” said Peter, before handing it over, “and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” 

===============

26.12.40 Lord Peter Wimsey, Duke’s Denver, Norfolk

REGRET TO INFORM AGENCY OFFICES FIRE-BOMBED. ALL WOMEN SAFE INCL OFFICE CAT. GRATEFUL PRAYERS! LETTER TO FOLLOW.

Katherine A. Climpson

===============

“Oh, no, Peter! You must call Miss Climpson at once.”

Peter stood, touched a napkin to his lips, brushed a kiss to Harriet’s temple, and departed. “Right-o. Obedience is the mother of success.” 

Harriet sighed, shook her head, and turned to Bunter with frank relief. “Thank goodness Gerald and Helen were away early this morning.” 

“Indeed, my lady,” murmured Bunter. “I verified Viscount St. George’s continued good health upon arising this morning.”

“Bless you, Bunter.” A piercing cry from the infant Roger, third Wimsey son, brought Harriet reluctantly to her feet. “Healthy sons are a great blessing, but it is good to be reminded of the same.” 

* * *

Friday, Dec. 26th   
Miss Katherine Alexandra Climpson   
Flat 718, Utopia Court  
Oxford Street, W.

My dear Lord and Lady Peter,

I cannot say how GRATEFUL I am for your _perspicacity_ in insisting on telephonic accessibility for myself and the other inhabitants of our little utopian court! I was so filled with dread at the prospect of recounting the damage that _horrid little moustache_ has done to your lordship’s property that I could not put pen to paper after THREE cups of tea!!! At your call I fear I gushed every _terrifying_ detail into your patient ears and your voice so _reassuring_ my shaking hands took on NEW STRENGTH despite my three score and ten.

Mrs. Greenley―Miss Murchison that was―escorted me to the (former!!) site of our dear Cattery as she has _prominent_ stature in the AFS, but we both wept unashamed to see our place of USEFUL BUSINESS and its neighbours burnt to _ashes_. Thankfully all our ladies were absent from those quarters, it being a PERFIDIOUS attack by night and none so _foolish_ as to ignore the sirens in these perilous days. All have reported sound and _ready for duty_ per the telephone communications system that Mrs. Greenley so _fortuitously_ arranged in September last. You must not abandon this _precious_ time with your family to see to our affairs, for we are quite prepared to work from Anderson shelters if required, and His Majesty’s call on your services is RATHER MORE important!!!

Mrs. Greenley has declared my sixth-floor bower unsafe for the times and insists that I must not be so _rude_ as to decline your invitation to spend the blessed Feast of the Epiphany with you and your _dear children_ while she reassembles our little cooperative. Reluctant as I am to leave my dear home, I do consider that Sunday being the anniversary of the SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS ought to be prayerfully considered as Christly foreshadowing. 

Given the state of our rail stations I shall no doubt be called upon to use my _sharp_ elbows and act the frail and aged spinster!!! Fortunately my career _in your service_ has well prepared me for such THEATRICAL performances, and bolstered by the sure and certain knowledge that _your faithful Bunter_ awaits me at journey’s end, anticipation will keep me _sanguine_ until we meet.

Gratefully and _most_ sincerely yours, 

Katherine Alexandra Climpson.

* * *

Saturday, December 27, 1940  
7:00 am  
Lord Peter’s dressing room

“Peter, do you think Miss Climpson would be happier in the Dower House with your mother?” asked Harriet. “Even with Helen off bolstering bureaucratic morale, there’s still our noisome bunch here as well as the entire school of war refugees in the west wing.”

Peter considered the question as he rolled on a sock. “If she’s not overly traumatized by the Blitz, I think she’d prefer to be in the midst of the action here, y’know. And I had rather enjoyed the thought of bunking her in Lady Susan’s room.”

Lady Susan, another of the family ghosts, had cherished a grand passion for Chippendale, pink chintz, and astoundingly elaborate draperies. 

“Oh, Peter! She’ll be thrilled. I can’t imagine a more appreciative occupant.” Harriet bit her lip. “Lady Susan doesn’t walk there, does she?”

“Never known to. Great-grandmama would certainly have reported it.” Peter laced up one elegant leather shoe. “Miss Climpson will be safely insulated there from young Roger’s late-night warblings. And if I’m called out or you’re napping, Mother will no doubt be keen to entertain her.” 

Harriet pictured the voluble dowager duchess conversing with the equally garrulous Miss Climpson. “Goodness, the word count! If only I could dictate at their speed.”

* * *

Monday, December 29, 1940  
3:00 pm  
The library

“And, oh my dear, she did enjoy the adulation, though she’d have been happier, I’m sure, if her children had felt the same. But one couldn’t be a working monarch in those days and spend all one’s time in the nursery and the schoolroom.”

Kitty Climpson had long suspected that the interior life of the royal family resembled that of her own high-born acquaintances. She had _not_ expected to converse with a witness to the phenomenon. It was quite thrilling. “Will Lord and Lady Peter employ tutors, do you think, Your Grace? Lord Peter is Eton educated, I believe.” 

“Oh, please, do call me Honoria. So few people do now, and I miss hearing my name. Old age seems to have robbed me of it.”

Kitty was taken aback. “Thank you,” she said softly. She knew she should protest the unwarranted familiarity, but she also understood the longing to hear a name that had once been shared with long-gone friends. 

“It would be a privilege,” she said. “ ‘Honoria’ is quite dignified and feminine, I think. Whereas I am Kitty, which is playful at least.”

“Suitable to a patient and observant sleuth as well, Kitty, and this house celebrates both curiosity and cats.” The dowager duchess waved at the carved wooden panel over the library’s main fireplace, which depicted three mice escaping from the heraldic cat atop the Wimsey coat of arms. 

Kitty observed that the pouncing cat did not appear to be one of the domestic varieties she had known.

“I agree with you. I suppose it was some crusader’s idea of a cat. With three mice errant, Peter likes to say.”

“Is the panel that old?”

“Nearly. It’s a glamour, you know. Portal for the family ghosts.” 

Oh, dear. Kitty hardly knew how to respond to the duchess’s cheerful pottiness. It was, she supposed, the privilege of nobility. Very well. She assumed the agreeability that had sustained her through many an investigation. “Has your Wimsey cat a name, I wonder?”

“She has never told me,” said the duchess, with a twinkle. “But I sometimes call her Alice.” She picked up her knitting, a tweedy cap for grandson Bredon. “What was I saying? Oh, Eton. Peter was miserable there, poor boy, though my late husband was adamant on the subject of his old school. Cricket saved Peter from the worst of it, but it put him in the soup, too, as they say.”

“The playing fields of Eton have much to account for.”

The duchess concentrated on a difficult twisted stitch. “Yes. We nearly lost Peter after he was invalided out. It took all our efforts―Bunter’s, Harriet’s, and mine―to restore him to himself. And you, I believe, were among the first to call him back to his proper work at a time when he was too nervy to risk two bob on a horse race.”

“It was _noblesse oblige,_ you know. I was seeking contributions for a women’s charity and he hadn’t a penny in his pockets. He apologised abjectly and asked how else he could help and, having endured a long day of scornful rejections, I was rather _loquacious_ on the subject.”

“Were your parents suffragists, Kitty? I’ve often wondered how you became caught up in the women’s cause.”

“My mother was sympathetic, I believe, though I was a mere girl when she passed on. My father had no time for such thinking. Few men do, of course.”

“But you defied him.”

“Heavens, no! He wanted me married and caring for a family, not _manipulating_ a typewriter. His opinion didn’t alter when it was my work keeping us fed.”

“How, then―” A small, grey-haired gentleman stepped into the library. “Oh, Cousin Matthew, do come in and meet Miss Katherine Climpson. Kitty, this is Mr. Matthew Wimsey, Peter’s third cousin. He’s our family historian-cum-librarian.”

“Miss McClemson. A great pleasure.” Mr. Wimsey bobbed with a sort of stutter, like a robin seeking worms.

“Don’t let us hinder you, Matthew,” said the duchess. “We’re off to take young Bredon for a tramp before tea.” 

Kitty allowed the duchess to thread a hand through her arm as they departed. 

“Matthew’s half-deaf, poor soul, but it suits him well enough, as he enjoys company but dislikes conversing. That makes him the perfect companion for me, Peter always says. So impudent! As if he weren’t grand champion at piffle.”

* * *

New Year’s Eve  
Wednesday, December 31, 1940  
8:30 pm  
The dining room

The dowager duchess put down her dessert spoon and wiggled with satisfaction. “Peter, you won’t believe it,” she said. “I saw Lady Susan today on the terrace. I felt quite chilly on her behalf. That muslin dress was surely meant to be a summer frock.”

“Did you, by Jove? I haven’t seen her in dog’s years.” 

Kitty shot a quizzical look at Harriet. “I hope I haven’t displaced Lady Susan from her chambers.…”

“Oh, no, Miss Climpson,” said Peter. “Lady Susan is one of our family ghosts.”

“One of?” she asked faintly. She was certain Lord Peter was not a spiritualist.

“There are three known to us,” explained Harriet. “I've only seen Old Gregory, whom I met on my first visit here. He prefers the library. Lady Susan haunts the grounds, especially the terrace and the flower beds. And Lord Roger prefers the west wing. The boys in the dormitory there have made a sport of catching glimpses of him. Bredon claims he saw him on Christmas Day.”

“Lord Peter,” reproved Kitty. She placed her own silverware neatly on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “I believe you are all sporting with _me_.” 

“Indeed not. These are not the sort of ghosts that spew ectoplasm and tap on tables. Just old family members who come back to visit favourite places. Quite harmless.”

“We’re lucky in that regard,” said the dowager duchess. “No poltergeists, not even the playful cat of Mapperton House, which I would quite like to see someday. I’m thankful we don’t have any of those dreadful wailers, like the Brown Lady.”

“You’d wail too if you were locked up in Raynham Hall,” said Peter.

That raised a faint memory. “Didn’t I see a photo of the Brown Lady in a magazine?” asked Kitty. “I was unimpressed by the likeness to Lady Walpole.”

“Yes,” said Harriet. “In _Country Life._ Though Bunter agrees with you; he has pronounced the photography dubious.”

“My Norfolk favourite is William Windham,” said the duchess. “I do hope he will come and visit Old Gregory when he’s read all the books in his own library. We’re practically neighbours.” 

“He’ll not find many books to die for in Gerald’s library, will he, Matthew?” asked Peter.

“No, no. Our collection does not compete with Felbrigg Hall, except in Wimsey texts.”

Kitty was astonished by this matter-of-fact discussion. 

“It’s quite all right to disbelieve,” Harriet said soothingly. “I would fully share your skepticism if I hadn’t seen Old Gregory myself before I’d even heard the stories about him.”

“It does seem rather contradictory to scripture.” Kitty felt compelled to decry unorthodox forms of spiritualism even when discovered in her beloved patrons.

“In my Father’s house are many mansions,” said Peter. “S’pose this is one of them?”

“Even the devil can cite scripture, Lord Peter,” Kitty said, repressing a smile. “I see I must be on my guard.”

“Peter will make a swoonish poet-ghost someday, I expect,” announced the duchess. “But I shall precede him and spend all my days keeping Ahasuerus away from the china cupboard.”

“And I shall learn to knit, or spin,” said Harriet. “So Peter may sit at my feet and laud my beauty as he feeds me apples. What would your ghost do, Miss Climpson?” 

“Oh, dear. I don’t know.” She remembered an old dream. “Perhaps I will read law and administer justice.”

The celebrants stilled in the face of this sober pronouncement. Then Peter raised his glass for a toast. “To the spirit of justice. May she reign over this new year of our lord, 1941.”

“The spirit of justice!”

* * *

New Year’s Day  
Wednesday, January 1, 1941  
10:30 am  
The library

New Year’s Day was windy. Sun and clouds played tag outside the library windows, casting fitful shadows across the great lawn. The Wimseys, the dowager duchess, and Kitty were comfortably ensconced in the sofa and armchairs clustered around the library’s main fireplace. Three-year-old Paul and five-year-old Bredon sprawled on the Aubusson carpet. Paul was repeatedly running a wooden locomotive into his brother’s leg, sparking no apparent reaction from Bredon. Cousin Matthew wrote at the long oak table in a nearby bay, glancing up occasionally to nod cordially at all.

Kitty sat quietly, enjoying the company, the beautiful room, the scent of old leatherbound books, and the brief respite from nightly air raids. She finished rewinding a ball of gorgeous crimson wool and set to work casting on stitches. 

Peter put a proprietary arm around Harriet and watched Kitty knit. “Have you thought about my query, Miss Climpson?”

She looked up from her knitting. “Yes, I have decided. Mrs. Greenley is prepared to step in and I am prepared to step down.”

“You are not ill, I hope!” Harriet said, startled.

“No, Lady Peter. Just old and, I believe, clear-eyed. I’ve had a good run, and Lord Peter has offered me a very satisfactory pension.”

“Well played,” the dowager duchess congratulated her son.

“You should be crowned with a wreath of roses,” Harriet said. “Oh dear, that would be a crown of thorns, wouldn’t it? A laurel wreath, then. For all the women and men you have saved.”

“You flatter me too highly,” Kitty said, embarrassed. “I hope I have done good work.”

A sudden, emphatic “Ow” from Bredon prompted Peter to get up and part the two boys. He picked Bredon up and deposited him safely next to the table where Matthew was working.

Amused, Harriet smiled at Kitty and asked “Did _you_ ever work as a nanny, Miss Climpson?”

“Not for any extended period. I was always more of the ‘old stick’ spinster than the motherly auntie. I preferred secretarial posts and, as you know, the rôle of professional snoop. I’ve always felt I have a better understanding of ladies, fraudsters, and roués than of small children."

The dowager duchess’s head tipped sideways. “How did you come by that understanding, if I may ask?”

Kitty paused, looked up from her work. Few had ever asked her that question; the first was Lord Peter. She waited for him to slip back into his seat beside Harriet. 

He nodded encouragement at her, but added “Secrets are respected here.”

Did that mean she should speak, or keep silent? As always, he would let her choose. Kitty put her knitting aside and spoke quietly. “Lord Peter is one of the few who knows this story. It is an old one.

“I was 19 when my father died, and my dear friend Edith and I took up shared housekeeping. I was a peripatetic typist, and she supplemented her small inheritance working as a seamstress out of our flat.” 

She stopped. “Goodness, I haven’t spoken of Edith in so many years.” She had thought of her often, longed for her companionship and conversation. “Our names sat side-by-side in the baptismal register at St. Cuthbert’s. We were devoted to each other in the way that happens more often with young women than young men, I’ve found. Though perhaps that is different on the battlefields.”

“Perhaps,” murmured Harriet.

“Well, one of Edith’s gentlemen clients refused to reimburse her for her work, and when she objected he struck her across the face and then beat her senseless. Edith was no mouse. She fought him. I found her dying when I returned from my own work.”

“Oh, Miss Climpson!” Harriet gasped. “How terrible. I am most desperately sorry.” 

The duchess closed her eyes and said something so quietly that Kitty did not catch a word of it. She looked away from Harriet’s shocked sorrow only to view Mr. Matthew Wimsey burying his head in his hands. 

Kitty took a deep breath, blinked away an entirely unexpected tear, and focused on Lord Peter’s calm and steady expression.

“I pursued the man and extracted a small amount of justice, though nothing akin to Edith’s worth. Thereafter I determined that I would make that womanly justice my work. It is your dear husband, Lady Peter, who made that work feasible. The law has few funds to spare on the concerns of women.”

The room fell silent. Harriet was the first to recover. She grasped Peter’s hand. “Like you, Peter cannot bear injustice. When he joined with you to save my life, I was quite overwhelmed by his fervour. But I see now that he has _galvanized_ us both. I am so very grateful that you two found each other.”

“It was _ordained,_ I feel sure.” Kitty had believed that from her first encounter with Lord Peter. “I might have become an avenging Nemesis without his assistance and advice. He always instructs me to observe and understand even if Christian forgiveness fails me.”

“ ‘And who understands? Not me, because if I did I would forgive it all,’ ” said Peter.

“That’s John Donne,” Harriet clarified. She made a wry face. “I’m afraid I have not achieved anything like perfect understanding, much less forgiveness.”

“Nor I, Lady Peter. I have only hoped to do justice and learn forgiveness as I can.”

“You and Peter have laid many a mouse at the feet of Lady Justice,” said the dowager duchess. “That is your job. It is enough.”

* * *

Thursday, January 2, 1941  
4:30 am  
The nursery

Harriet placed Roger in his crib, wiped a drop of milk from his rosebud lips, and then sank with a groan into the deep chair beside his bed. She held out her arms to Peter, who slid in beside her with alacrity. Exhausted together, they lay mute and content in the semi-darkness.

He pressed soft kisses across her forehead and down her cheek. “These nights, Harriet, beside you with our child at your breast...the poets do not begin to capture it. The ‘milk of human kindness,’ pffft! I marvel at you. I adore you. With my body I thee worship. 

“I once thought that an extravagant vow,” he continued, “but it seems paltry now. Men are but halfsome creatures beside their wives.”

“You are a very romantically minded person,” said Harriet dryly. “I leave the poets to you. My quarrel is with the Madonnist painters, who seem oblivious to the mess, the exhaustion, and the frazzled, heart-stopping fear. So much fear.” She shuddered. “While the War Office natters on about patriotic motherhood.”

Peter pulled her closer. “Did you long for a girl child, Harriet? I know I have dreamed of it.”

His ability to read her thoughts was no longer surprising. “I fantasized, of course. A little Lucasta with your nose and my brows, poor thing. But I am happy with my Lord Roger. He may have a war of his own to face one day, but he will have every other chance at a full life.”

“Lucasta would not?” 

Harriet reviewed the women she had known: friends, family members, neighbours, retainers. Whether high or low-born, Oxford dons or charladies, their lives were directed “for better or worse” by the character of the men they had known. “Even wealth and privilege cannot assure that,” she concluded. “Not even intelligence and courage of the highest order.”

“Miss Climpson has chastened you. She is a rough diamond who has often been mistaken for a worthless pebble.”

“She ought to have had so much more from life!” Harriet had not realised how fiercely she felt on the subject until that moment. She had sometimes harboured similar thoughts about her Shrewsbury classmates, but Kitty Climpson was more deserving than any. 

“She is not unhappy, you know,” Peter said. “She has done justice, saved the innocent, and employed and educated many women like herself. Her accomplishments are recognised by those who know her.”

“And now she faces old age alone, in wartime, an unacknowledged heroine.”

“She is not alone who has friends.”

“No, of course not, but not...not.…” Harriet had no wish to disparage friendship. “Not the mess and comforts of home and family and security, and not the love and adoration she deserves. I owe her my life, Peter!”

“And I, my heart. We will do right by her, dearest. I promise you.”

Harriet’s righteous anger drained away. She patted Peter’s chest and dozed for a few minutes until awakened by a snore from her spouse. “Peter, you should get to bed. The Foreign Office may call on your services again at any moment.”

“Entreat me not to leave thee,” he admonished sleepily. He pushed up a bit in the chair and drew her into his lap. “Harriet, I have a confession. I’ve told my would-be masters that I’ll take up arms if the Germans are on the beaches, but I’ll not leave this sceptre’d isle in wartime again.” 

Harriet started so violently that she nearly concussed herself on Peter’s chin. “Oh, Peter, truly? Truly?”

“Yes, my love. Let that fear at least pass away.” 

Harriet burst into tears. 

“Oh, my dear, my dearest,” Peter repeated frantically as he cradled her in his arms. “I am grievously sorry to have worried you so. Forgive me. Forgive me, Harriet.” 

She punched a fist against his chest “Of course I do, you...you….” She could not complete the thought.

“Bungo had the nerve to tell me that intelligence is a young man’s game, can you wrap your head around that?” Peter laughed. “Still, I fear His Majesty’s government will nonetheless claim much of my time for the duration. When the holidays are over, you’ll have to return to Talboys without me.”

“I am content. I am so glad. So glad. So glad!”

Peter stroked the wild hair from Harriet’s face. “So you see, my dear, I have resolved our perennial question, and love, aligned with age, has overmastered work.”

She patted the sternum she had earlier pounded. “Three cheers for age!”

* * *

Friday, January 3, 1941  
11:00 am  
The library

“I hope I do not disturb you, Mr. Wimsey,” said Kitty. “Lord and Lady Peter are enjoying a drive and I wished to sit by the fire. I shall not chatter too much.”

“No, no.” He waved her into the library. “Please come in. Gregory and I enjoy company.”

Kitty halted and then followed Mr. Wimsey’s gaze upward to the gallery. There stood a bewigged man dressed in a long waistcoat of bottle-green brocade, dark breeches, and white stockings. He nodded at her absently before turning his attention back to the bookshelves. 

Shocked, Kitty collapsed into the armchair beside the fireplace. “Oh, my.” She drew in a long breath, then laughed at herself and her proud disbelief. “That is Mr. Gregory Wimsey? Oh, my. He looks as if he’d stepped out of a Hogarth portrait.”

Mr. Wimsey hovered beside her, hands waving helplessly. “Please, don’t be alarmed. He is quite a nice old gentleman.”

She felt giddy. “Yes, I’m certain. I’m certain of that. Goodness.” She patted at her hair as if to ensure it was still in place. “Well. There are more things in heaven and earth, aren’t there, Mr. Wimsey?”

He took a seat on the sofa across from her. “Oh, yes.” He directed her attention to the carved wooden panel above the fireplace, where mice scampered in the flowers beneath the Wimsey coat of arms. “This is quite a whimsical family, you know. You’ll soon grow accustomed to it. Gregory never shows himself to people who have no imagination.”

That was quite the longest speech Kitty had heard from Matthew Wimsey. She shivered a bit, pushed back in her chair, and focused on the fireplace rather than the spirit in the gallery. “So the carving really is a portal? A...glamour?”

Mr. Wimsey settled back into the sofa. “Yes, ‘glamour’ is from the Scots language; the root is the Latin ‘grammatica.’ The mediaevalists, you see, did not distinguish between _learning_ and _magic_.” He clearly sympathised with those ancients. “A glamour is a spell, or an enchanted object, evoked by scholarly efforts. Most appropriate in a Wimsey library, don’t you agree?”

“You are a wag yourself, Mr. Wimsey.” And I am well into cloud-cuckoo land, she thought. Far gone. I may have delayed retirement too long.

“I thank you.” He waited patiently for her next question.

“And how does this enchanted carving work, I wonder?”

“The _how_ is lost to whichever Wimsey created it. But it is the means by which our ghosts come and go.” 

“Like Alice through the looking glass!” She saw now how aptly the duchess had named the Wimsey tabby.

“Indeed, yes.” 

Against her will, Kitty was feeling a bit enchanted herself. “Have you attempted to pass through yourself?” 

He shook his head. “I will not consider it until I complete my research on Wimseys at the Battle of Roncevaux. I should not saddle Peter with that task.”

“Most responsible.” She turned and looked up at Old Gregory again to verify her sanity. Or insanity. “I hope you will allow me to read your history someday, Mr. Wimsey. What an extraordinary family you have.” 

“Of course, of course. So kind.” He rose from his chair, bowed, and went back to work at his table as if unaware that he had just turned Miss Climpson’s world upside down. It was an hour before she felt steady enough to rise and return to Lady Susan’s room for prayer.

* * *

Saturday, January 4, 1941  
2:45 pm  
The Dower House sitting room

Harriet lounged in one corner of the dowager duchess’s deep-cushioned floral settee while Peter snored softly beside her. He had been up most of the night taking telephone calls from government officials and intermittently checking on her and the boys. Harriet had only been required to cope with a nursing infant and a wandering toddler. 

The room was warm and the muted click of knitting needles was comforting. The dowager duchess and Miss Climpson spoke softly in deference to Peter’s slumber. Harriet slipped in and out of a doze herself, letting snatches of conversation pass by without clarification. 

“Oh, Matthew is a dear, I often wonder if he isn’t a ghost himself….Gregory never does speak to me. I expect he finds me outrageous, but Susan sometimes.…”

“...more vexing than _the Trinity!_ I do feel aflutter with....”

“...some Wimsey clergymen, you know, as well as mystics. Matthew could show you what they have to say on the subject.”

“Lord Peter does say that the investigator’s mind must not be closed to fresh evidence, however it disturbs the.…”

“...once shocked the vicar by pointing out that if man was made in the image of God, why not of the Holy Ghost?”

“...to contemplate, though not, I fear, to resolve….”

“Mr. Dodgson was a deacon, as I recall, and his father….”

“... _impossible_ things! Lord, help thou my unbelief!”

“I prefer Harriet’s mysteries to the theological ones.”

“...I shall need a ground floor flat, sadly, for I have enjoyed my view….”

“...so _dangerous_ at present, and Gerald and Helen have no say in the Dower House.…”

“...find a certain careless freedom for the aged.…”

“...and _that_ is my opinion on dotage!”

Harriet snapped awake. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. What dreadful guests we are!” She nudged Peter awake. “You’re snoring, dearest.”

He blinked, sat upright, and shone an unembarrassed grin on the ladies. “Sorry, Mater, Miss Climpson.” He stretched. “What hath night to do with sleep?”

“Night and sleep are at war too, it seems,” responded Harriet. “We must rescue the nanny, Peter. Do stay and chat, Miss Climpson. We’ll see you at dinner.”

* * *

Sunday, January 5, 1941  
10:20 am  
Duchess Helen’s sitting room

“Thank you, Bunter. I believe Miss Climpson and I have earned some tea and biscuits by venturing out to church on such a cold morning.” 

“Indeed, my lady.”

Harriet helped Kitty off with her hat and coat, which Bunter immediately appropriated. “Let’s take over Helen’s sitting room. It’s cozy at this time of year if you avert your eyes from the wall hangings.”

She led Kitty up the stairs and into Helen’s lair. “Oh, my,” said Kitty. “This home is _so_ full of surprises.” 

Harriet laughed. “You are a most tactful woman, Miss Climpson. Let’s sit over here by the fire and stare at the flames instead of the artistic abominations.”

“Thank you.” Kitty settled primly into a straightback chair and fussed with her skirt. “And Lady Peter, as I am no longer in Lord Peter’s employ, I hope you will now call me Kitty.”

Harriet knew this was not a favour bestowed lightly. “I would be honoured. And I hope you will call me Harriet.” 

“Oh, I may have difficulty with that.”

“You can manage it, I’m sure,” said Harriet. She paused. “You have been rather quiet this morning, Kitty.”

“Unnaturally so?” Kitty asked, with a knowing smile. “It’s true, my visit here has given me much to think and pray about. I must _reorder_ my view of the spirit...ual world, to begin. Something to contemplate in my old age, no doubt.”

“Are you determined to return to London? You would be most welcome with us in Hertfordshire. We could find a cottage that would be yours alone. You need not endure the chaos that is Talboys.”

“I am most grateful, Lady P―Harriet―but I should feel like a _dependent_. And that does not suit my nature any better than yours. It’s true I have relied on Lord Peter for employment, but then I am confident my ladies and I have given him _full value_ for his investment.”

“More than that, Kitty. Far more.” Harriet wanted to plead friendship―and the debts that both she and Peter owed Miss Climpson―but it was clear that the lady would not be swayed by those considerations. “You will let Peter find you a safer flat, I hope?”

“I had thought of looking for a flat near my old home with Edith.” Kitty seemed rueful. “It is perhaps characteristic of the aged that their thoughts turn to their youth instead of the shortening future. But in truth it is the kindness of your whole family that has reminded me of what it once felt like to share a home.”

“That is why we would like to have you near us.” Harriet felt rather embarrassed by the strength of her own feelings. “Lord, we all become sentimental in times of peril, do we not?”

“Dear Lady Peter! I have _always_ been sentimental, as you know.” Kitty nodded firmly, decisively. “No, I will not leave London now, not even if the Germans _goose-step_ in.” 

Harriet felt sure the Nazis would regret such a step if Kitty Climpson were in the watching crowd.

Kitty sighed. “I am _foolish,_ no doubt. But Edith has been often in my thoughts and prayers these last few days. What would our lives have been like if she had lived, I wonder? Would she have married? Would she have found the kind of satisfying work that I have enjoyed? Would we still be friends in our doddering days?”

“I feel certain that you would.”

“Perhaps. I do not know. We are all so easily contemptuous of women and their _attachments_. I have condemned the overenthusiasm of youth myself, which I can only call now the pitiful envy of a sterile old maid.”

“Kitty, no! You are the most spirited woman I know, and I am certain that your devotion to a friend you loved so well _must_ have been known to her. You have risked everything for the many women you’ve saved―from wife-beaters, confidence men, and murderers!”

A discreet knock preceded Bunter’s entry with a tea tray. Harriet felt shamefully grateful for the interruption. She poured tea for them both and sipped more than once before she spoke again.

“Peter and I will do whatever we can to make your retirement a happy one. Please allow us that gift at least.”

“That is most kind. I am determined not to prove a burden.”

* * *

2:15 pm  
The walled garden

A sunny afternoon tempted Kitty and the dowager duchess outside for a breath of fresh air. The flower garden’s stone walls gleamed gold in the weak January sunshine, but the beds were nearly empty. Sentinel yews stood lonely watch while the brittle stems of dormant perennials rattled in the chill breeze. 

“Do you mind?” the dowager duchess asked as she took Kitty’s arm. “My footing is unsteady even on the flattest ground these days.”

“I shall rely on your support as well,” said Kitty. 

“We shall rise and fall together then. Very good.”

They walked slowly to the far end of the garden, turned, and took a seat on a teak bench snugged against the wall. 

“It is not too cold for you?” asked Kitty. 

“Not for the moment. My joints will stiffen soon enough.” Honoria tugged her woolen scarf a bit tighter around her neck. 

“This must be a lovely place to sit in summer. Your home is quite overwhelmingly beautiful and expansive.”

“Do you think so? I enjoyed the management of the estate when I was young, but it always felt like my husband’s home rather than mine. And now, of course, it is Gerald’s. I prefer the Dower House, which is just as well. I fear the London house will not open again soon.”

Honoria put her hand on Kitty’s arm. “You are certain you will not join me here? Or go with Harriet to Hertfordshire?”

“You are all very gracious, but no. I am old, but determined not to surrender my independence. Or my city.”

The duchess nodded. “I admire you. I have had neither independence nor any occupation other than the domestic sort.”

“Surely that is the most vital sort of occupation.” Kitty had not found herself well suited to the rôle, but she had never doubted its importance.

“Not exclusively so. The women who follow after us will have more choices, I hope. You and Harriet are their pathfinders.”

Kitty appreciated the compliment but felt some clarification was required. “Lady Peter and I could not forego income, you see. We simply veered from the _conventional_ forms of feminine employment to ones that better fit our skills.”

“Yes, I do see. That diversion is where the courage and perseverance were first required.”

They sat quietly for a while. 

“You will think me very silly indeed, Kitty, but allow me a fantastical suggestion. You could return to London―the London of your youth. You need only utilise the portal in the library.”

“Oh! Honoria!” Kitty laughed and shook her head. “I have confessed to seeing your ghost, but I cannot bring myself to believe in that sort of…magic. No. It is _quite thoroughly_ impossible.”

“And _unconventional_ ,” Honoria said mischieviously. “A bit silly even.”

Kitty smiled. “Lord Peter teases me in the same manner as you, Honoria.” 

“It is a most effective stratagem, don’t you think?”

“Indeed, yes,” Kitty said wryly. “But surely such _glamours_ are not for the likes of me. I cannot believe in them. And consider this: I am not a Wimsey. I am not even of noble birth.”

Honoria scoffed. “Nobility and aristocracy are not identical, my dear. And of all of us, you might make the most excellent use of such a journey.”

Kitty could make no sense of that. “Of what use is a spinster ghost to anyone?”

“Now that _is_ foolish, my dear. Think. Your spinsterhood works to your advantage, as you have no dependents and can safely entrust your ladies’ future to Peter. You would leave many friends behind, it is true. But you might save another, if all goes well.”

“You think I might save Edy?” The very idea made Kitty’s eyes glisten with tears. It was a fantasy, and a cruel one. It hurt most _abominably._

“I am not endorsing this course, mind you. It would be a risk, but you have courage and cleverness on your side.”

Kitty shook her head, unable to find a tactful rebuke. How she wished the duchess would stop speaking of such _fancies!_ It was impossible, absolutely impossible. 

“I have upset you. I am so sorry! But we are two old women facing inevitable decline and a wartorn future. I felt I must point out the possibility.”

“Me? Katherine Alexandra Climpson, a _ghost?”_ Kitty’s voice rose to an unaccustomed pitch. “Who could imagine that?”

“I could. I’m sure you could as well.” Honoria seemed remarkably comfortable with the idea.

Kitty laughed. “It’s...no. I should wail, I think. You would not enjoy that. And Honoria, how can a _ghost_ prevent a murder?” 

“That is your area of expertise, I believe. Would you help me up, Kitty?”

The polite request steadied her. “Oh, yes, of course. You must be half-frozen.” She took Honoria's arm and helped her rise. 

“Let’s walk over and chat with the gardener,” the duchess suggested. 

Kitty had not even noticed the young woman, whom she now saw pondering a flower bed in the back corner of the garden. The girl looked out of place but, Kitty reflected, most of the estate’s gardeners were no doubt serving in His Majesty’s forces.

The woman turned when she noticed their approach. She clapped dirt off her hands and wiped them on her heavy coat.

“Susan dear,” said the duchess. “I’m glad you’ve found your coat. Allow me to introduce you to Miss Katherine Climpson. Kitty, this is Lady Susan Wimsey.”

At this new shock, Kitty began to giggle. She simply couldn’t take it in. She pressed a hand to her bosom. Never in her life had her enthusiasms bloomed into hysteria, but now….

Honoria was alarmed. “Please say you are not having palpitations, dear Kitty!”

“Don’t fret, Honoria,” said Lady Susan. “She’s fine. I quite prefer laughter to screams of horror.” She held out her hand and waited patiently for Kitty to grasp it. “A pleasure, Miss Climpson.” 

Kitty shivered, but she could not be discourteous. She tentatively grasped Lady Susan’s hand. To her surprise, it felt warm and solid in hers. Lady Susan appeared to be a perfectly normal, slightly dishevelled, young woman with wavy brown hair and vibrant blue eyes. Her only oddity was her distinctly old-fashioned coat.

Lady Susan examined Kitty frankly while waiting for her to recover her breath. Only then did she speak. “Cousin Matthew and Honoria tell me that you are a most worthy person who might have an interest in...a change of circumstances, shall we say?”

Kitty turned to the duchess. “You must tell me honestly, Honoria. Am I demented?”

“Less so than I, it appears.”

That was not at all helpful. Was it conceivable that Lord Peter’s own mother would attempt to trick her in this way? And why would this young woman participate in the folly?

Kitty decided she was beyond the proprieties. “You do not appear to be insubstantial,” she challenged Lady Susan. 

“It is a ghost’s prerogative to appear substantial or not, to whomever they like,” she said. “But, you see, I am only a ghost on this side of the library. On my side, I am always solid flesh.” She held out her left hand for Kitty to examine. Her fingernails were ragged and dirty, and fresh cat scratches trailed up her arm. “Weeding still makes for unladylike hands, and cats still scratch.” 

That was hardly surprising. “Cats and weeds are easily found here,” said Kitty.

“True enough.” Lady Susan unbuttoned her greatcoat to reveal a sprigged muslin frock. She preened, smoothing her hands down her bodice to the wide blue sash above her waist, where she had tucked a huge crimson dahlia. She pulled the flower out of her sash and presented it to Kitty with a flourish. “I think you will agree, this prize dahlia did not come from this frightful garden.”

“It is January, dear, and wartime,” protested the duchess. 

“The point, Miss Climpson, is that wherever you choose to go, your life would be a real one, subject to all the joys and woes thereof.” 

“Oh, my,” was all Kitty could manage. “I must think. I must…I’m sorry, but I cannot believe in you.”

“Well, Honoria,” said Lady Susan, “she has put her finger in my wounds. I have no better demonstration to offer of my substance. Perhaps my vapourous departure will prove more convincing.” She bussed the duchess’s cheek. “Do give my best regards to the family.” 

And then she simply vanished, notably quicker than the Cheshire Cat, leaving a light mist and a few crushed flower petals in her wake.

Kitty sat down, right there, in the muddy path. “Honoria,” she said. “You must summon Mr. Bunter. I am quite swept off my feet.”

* * *

11:35 pm  
Lady Susan’s room

A nap and a light dinner with the Wimseys and their children restored strength to Kitty’s limbs, but she retired early to ponder the week’s events on her knees. Prayer came easily to her most evenings, but rarely had she ever been so in need of an immediate answer to prayer. In two days she would be back in London, and all would be decided for her. 

When kneeling became too painful, she gripped the bedpost, stood, and shuffled to a comfortable chintz armchair. There she tried to consider the evidence rationally, as Lord Peter would. Could these ghosts, and this glamour, be genuine?

No. They were preposterous. Yet her own senses reported that Gregory and Lady Susan _did_ have substance. Well, that told her only that her senses might be untrustworthy. 

And what of her understanding of human nature? Honoria Lucasta, Dowager Duchess of Denver, was certainly dotty, but could both she and Mr. Matthew Wimsey have dreamed up such an elaborate fantasy? And why were Lord and Lady Peter encouraging it? It seemed a most unlikely scheme. But then Kitty’s judgement might also be untrustworthy. 

Perhaps it would be best to approach Lord Peter on the morrow and challenge him outright about his family and his family ghosts. That seemed...almost a betrayal of trust, but Lord Peter had never turned away from unpleasant subjects. If she and Honoria and Matthew were deluded, Lord Peter had a right to know. He might laugh at Kitty’s gullibility, but he would not be unkind.

“You are avoiding the important question.” Kitty was not certain if that was her own thought or a divine one, but she recognised its truth. Whether she was able to use the glamour or not, _ought_ she avail herself of it? It seemed a temptation, a dream, an un-Christian removal from the sorrows of life. 

Did her faith require her to stay, to grow old and die and accept what had been granted her? Lady Susan had noted that life on the other side of the library had its pains, which Kitty found reassuring. Still, it might be cowardice to retreat to another age when her country was at war. 

_Was_ it cowardly, though, when the dangers of _using_ the portal were unknown? Kitty was willing to take risks when necessary. If called upon to manufacture Molotov cocktails in present-day London, she would do so. She could not, however, meaningfully redirect history as a soldier or a statesman might. 

In Victorian London she could, however, do _one perfect thing._ She could give Edith Griffiths her life back. 

And, oh, how many years she had wished for that opportunity. She had never been able to picture Edy’s dear, round face without seeing it battered and bleeding. Kitty might be a foolish old woman, but there was _no danger_ that would block her from saving her friend―if only she could. She would count herself among the blessed if she could, at last, do justice. 

Ah. Her father’s favourite verse was from Micah: “He has shown you, O man, what is good, and what does the Lord require of you, but to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?”

There was her answer. If it was all a trick or delusion, let the world laugh at her attempt. She had risked unknown paths before, and with more to lose. Why should she turn away from a belated opportunity to save her oldest friend simply because it seemed so foolish and selfish _to do what she had always longed to do?_

 _HE_ had shown this woman _what was good_. Kitty got up, crawled into bed, and slept the sleep of the just.

* * *

Epiphany  
Monday, January 6, 1941  
10:45 am  
The library

“Good morning, Mr. Wimsey.”

“Miss Climpson! So glad you have come.” Mr. Wimsey rose quickly from his seat at the library table and hastened toward her. “A most auspicious day.” 

Kitty brightened when she grasped his meaning. “Oh, it is the Feast of the Epiphany! Yes. Though sadly, my last day with your dear family.” 

“A day for manifestations and revelations,” said Mr. Wimsey. “You have come to use the glamour?”

His calm certainty steadied her. Her head lifted. “Yes…an experiment, perhaps.” 

An experiment in which she was prepared to leave behind her life, her friends, all her worldly goods. If this were a sham, she had reached the _apogee_ of foolishness. 

Well, she had approached that position before.

“I hope you will allow me to assist in your travel.” Mr. Wimsey’s cheeks were pink with excitement. “A direct witness would be of _great_ worth in my volume.”

Kitty chuckled. “I shall provide a last bit of evidence for Lord Peter then. In any case, Mr. Wimsey, I think you must stay, for I do not know how to proceed. And it is of _the utmost importance_ that I know where to go and when. A life very dear to me is at stake.”

“My dear lady, I assure you, you may go wherever your whimsy takes you.”

She laughed, more at herself than him. She handed him a letter. “I have written a brief note of thanks to Lord and Lady Peter. I believe they will understand my motivations. You will explain the...mechanics?”

He bowed. “They will understand and be happy for you.”

“I hope so. I find myself too overcome by emotion to make long goodbyes.” She took a long look around the room, appreciating its beauty and warmth. “Please show me what I must do...before I come to my senses.” 

“Come over here by the fire.” 

A large, grey tabby cat was curled in one corner of the fireside sofa. Her tail twitched lazily. Kitty looked up at the Wimsey coat of arms. The pouncing cat was no longer present there. 

Mr. Wimsey gently picked up the cat and stroked her luxurious coat. “I do hope you will come back to visit someday, Miss Climpson.” 

“I should like that.” What would future generations of Wimseys make of her, she wondered. That was something to think on later.

Mr. Wimsey placed the tabby in her arms. “Think now of where and when you wish to be, and when she jumps, you must follow her.”

Kitty cradled the cat to her bosom and examined its unblinking golden eyes. “Dear Alice. Not through the looking glass after all, but down the rabbit hole.” 

In the end, the thing was anticlimactic. The cat leaped from Kitty’s arms into the central wreath of the Aubusson rug and disappeared. “Oh!” Kitty stepped after her and was gone. Simply...not there. A moment later the tabby reappeared atop the Wimsey crest. 

Mr. Wimsey looked up at Old Gregory, who made an approving noise. 

So Mr. Wimsey went back to his books. Explanations could wait until luncheon.

* * *

Late that night  
Staff dining room

Peter and Harriet, stunned by the disappearance of Miss Climpson and Honoria and Cousin Matthew’s account of events, retreated to the deserted late-night kitchen to recoup from a shocking day.

“I believed in Gregory,” Harriet admitted. “I did. But only because I had seen him. This...I don’t know how to believe in this, Peter. Even if your mother vouches for Matthew’s story. It’s….”

“Fantastical,” said Peter. “Whimsical, perhaps.”

Harriet shook her head. “No, not whimsical! I want her back.” She gave him a little shake. “Didn’t you suspect what they were up to?”

“I knew something was afoot, Harriet, but not this.” Peter took her hand in his. “I shall miss her too, you know. But I cannot...disdain her choice.”

“Whyever didn’t you tell me about the portal?” asked Harriet. 

“Ah.” Peter was abashed. “We’ve spent so little time here since we married, and…it raises uncomfortable questions, y’know.”

Harriet’s eyebrow quirked. “Meaning?”

“Well,” Peter said. “All of our ghosts travel alone.” He lifted her hand and kissed it.

“Oh, Peter. You _are_ a hopeless romantic.”

“I am most regretful at my omission. You ought to have known. I _was_ working my way around to it.”

He was so pathetic that Harriet took pity on him. “You thought you’d spring lesser whimsies on me first? The lady in the lake, perhaps, or the Holy Grail in the butler’s pantry?”

“Something like that, yes. Apologies, my love. I shall make a list of all such fancies and present one to you daily henceforth.”

Just then Bunter pushed through the kitchen’s swinging door and headed directly toward the stovetop teakettle.

Peter wasn’t having it. “No more tea, please. Sit down, Sergeant. Our holidays are over and we’ll be back to reality, and the war effort, on the morrow. We must make a plan.”

“The _domestic_ war effort,” Harriet corrected. 

“As my lady says.”

Bunter pulled out a chair and sat down. “Very good, sir.” 

Harriet raised the question that had been on her mind ever since she―crazily, reluctantly, laughingly―came to accept Matthew’s story. “Whatever will we tell Mrs. Greenley and the agency ladies?”

Peter made a perplexed face. “We might suggest Miss Climpson was lost in one of the latest bombings….”

“Oh, Peter, no! We can’t tell such a terrible lie.”

“Mr. Murbles might propose a solution,” said Bunter. Peter’s longtime lawyer would at least know the consequences of whatever story they chose to tell.

“I suppose,” Harriet said doubtfully. Mr. Murbles was _almost_ imperturbable.

“Our fiction writer has no proposal?” asked Peter. 

Harriet grimaced, and then set her mind to the problem. At length she announced, “I believe I would send her on an espionage mission deep in central Europe.”

Peter slapped a hand to his forehead. “I married a genius, Bunter! Think of it! No explanations would even be permitted.”

“I understand the Resistance has already put women into such positions,” said Bunter. “Miss Climpson would be well suited to the task.”

“ _Une femme formidable,_ ” Peter agreed. “Excellent. That’s settled then. It’s all very hush-hush. Top secret! Accidental hints only.”

Harriet nodded. “I leave it to you then.” She let her head rest against Peter’s shoulder. “Do you think she’ll find Edith in time to save her?”

“Oh, my dear. Though all the principalities and powers of darkness work against her! This is most certainly true.”

His confidence was genuine, Harriet could see. “And whatever will Edith make of a 70-year-old friend suddenly appearing on her doorstep?”

“Hmm…” Peter smiled fondly. “I am sorry we cannot witness that.”

“If I may interject,” said Bunter, “Mr. Wimsey informed me that Lady Susan was 78 at the time of her departure.”

Harriet, who had never met Lady Susan, didn’t grasp the significance, but Peter did. “Good God, man! You’re right. Susan may have left Duke’s Denver an old woman, but when she puts in an appearance these days, she doesn’t look a day over 25!”

“So if Miss Climpson returns to her youth, she would be...19? 20? How glorious!” Harriet beamed. “Oh, how I wish I could see her! I think she must have been a willowy beauty at that age.”

Peter’s smile echoed her own. “And are you tempted to return to 19, my dear?”

What a horrifying thought. “Lord, no!” 

“The question,” said Bunter, “is would there be two Misses Climpson, or one?”

“Oh, just one, surely. An elder and a young mind in one healthy body,” opined Peter. “Susan and Gregory could hardly return to their times as inexplicable twins. There must be a fusion with their earlier selves.”

“It sounds rather outlandish,” said Harriet, “but they are, after all, the same person, just at different stages of life. I, for one, would gladly take on a wiser version of myself.”

“And where is that version now, do you think?” asked Peter.

“Oh, speeding ’round the moons of Jupiter, I hope. You will pilot our rocketship at the speeds you’ve always dreamed of, while chasing space pirates to their lairs. Little Lucasta and the boys will do experiments in gravity and radio waves, while Bunter takes spectacular photographs of the Great Red Spot.”

“And your occupation, my dear?”

“I shall document your adventures, translate Jovian sonnets to the King’s English, and write fantastical mysteries about love and crime.”

“If I may say so, my lady,” said Bunter, “that would be a most satisfactory conclusion.”

_End_

Links

 _[The Wimsey Family,](https://www1.sayers.org.uk/press/wimseyfamily.html)_ by C.W. Scott-Giles, displays the Wimsey coat of arms on the cover.

[William Windham III](https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/features/a-haunted-library-and-a-bookish-ghost) died from his injuries in 1809 after rescuing books from a friend’s burning library. He reportedly haunts his own magnificent library in Felbrigg Hall, Norfolk, where he spends his time reading all those books he couldn’t get to in life.

[Lady Dorothy Walpole ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brown_Lady_of_Raynham_Hall)(1686-1726), sister of the prime minister, was indeed locked up in Raynham Hall. A picture of her ghost appeared in Country Life magazine in 1936.

[A poltergeist tabby cat](https://www.tatler.com/article/most-haunted-houses-uk) apparently knocks items off shelves in Mapperton House, Somerset.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to readers Beatrice_Otter and hangingfire.
> 
> Quotes
> 
> “It behoved that there should be sin; but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”  
> ― Julian of Norwich
> 
> “Obedience is the mother of success and is wedded to safety.”  
> ― Aeschylus
> 
> “In my Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you."  
> ― John 14:2
> 
> “The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.”  
> ― Shakespeare
> 
> “And who understands? Not me, because if I did I would forgive it all.”  
> ― John Donne
> 
> “Rough diamonds may sometimes be mistaken for worthless pebbles.”  
> ― Thomas Browne
> 
> “And Ruth said, ‘Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go’ ”  
> ― Ruth 1:16 
> 
> “There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”  
> ― Shakespeare
> 
> “And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said with tears, ‘Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.’ ”  
> ― Mark 9:24
> 
> “What hath night to do with sleep?”  
> ― John Milton
> 
> “Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here, and examine my hands. Extend your hand and put it into my side. Do not continue in your unbelief, but believe.’ "  
> ― John 20:27
> 
> “He hath shown thee, O man, what is good: and what doth the Lord require of thee but to do justly and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?”  
> ― Micah 6:8


End file.
